I Know What I Saw

He stands in the pause, his arms at his sides, not knowing what to do. I don’t know what to do either so we hang there awkwardly until I say, ‘Can you help me with this?’ I indicate the terminal.

He smiles and sits at the screen, completely at home. His fingers dance across the keys with no effort.

‘I need to send an email to my solicitors, but I don’t know where to start.’

‘Solicitors? What happened?’ he says, turning his head round to face me in concern.

‘Long story,’ I say in a way that shuts off any more questions.

He pauses. ‘What’s the name of the company?’

‘I’m not sure – I know her name – Janine Cullen,’ I say, without much hope.

He taps around for a second or two before looking meaningfully at the screen again. Every now and then he hmms and nods to himself, absorbed in what he is doing.

‘Okay, got it. Here, you can send her an email from my account. Or I can do it.’

I’m dazzled by the speed at which he navigates this world. ‘Can you just say that I’m coming in to see her? Today? Like maybe now?’

He gives me a look of amusement. ‘I’m not sure that’s exactly how it works but okay – sent,’ he says.

‘Thanks, Amit,’ I say.

‘It’s fine.’

As I get up to leave he calls after me, holding up the Proust in one hand, ‘Hope it all works out.’

Her office is a twenty- or thirty-minute walk from the library, up near Paddington Green Police Station. I push open the doors and see the receptionist stiffen as I do. My hands go up to signal peace.

‘It’s okay,’ I say to calm her nerves, ‘I have an appointment.’

I recognise that my voice and appearance are a clash. Seb’s clothes haven’t survived the night very well and when I look down, I notice for the first time that there are smears of ash down my front and charcoal under my nails and over my hands. I wonder if I’ve touched my face so that I now look camouflaged and ready for battle. I brush my clothes down self-consciously but when I do, debris drops from my back on to the carpet. Twigs, grass and other clinging things.

‘With?’ The woman folds her arms.

‘Janine,’ I say. ‘Cullen.’

At this she checks her computer, then becomes a little less tense. ‘She’ll be in in a few minutes. Take a seat, Mr —?’

‘Shute,’ I say. ‘More like the slide than the gun.’

She looks at me unimpressed and then indicates a row of battered chairs covered in blue cloth, spilling stuffing from their corners. ‘You can sit.’

There are magazines stacked in a neat pile on a coffee table. I sit and flick through them. Solicitors Journal. Law Society Gazette. The Lawyer. Counsel magazine. Legal Action Group. There is nothing here that I can imagine any visitor wanting to read. I flick through some back issues of the Gazette and start reading an article written by a barrister complaining about legal aid fees. Half a Shirt Anyone? is the strapline and it is the most interesting thing about it.

Twenty minutes pass in slow motion before Jan appears at the door.

‘Xander. I didn’t think you were going to come, if I’m honest,’ she says, dragging a wheelie case in behind her with one hand and some carrier bags stuffed with files in the other. Her hair is in a short bronzed plait. The freckles are still a surprise in her face.

‘Neither did I,’ I reply. I stand to shake her hand before remembering that mine is grubby. Her own are occupied and this thankfully goes unnoticed.

‘Come through,’ she says, and leads the way behind the reception desk through a glazed door. The lights come on automatically as we walk through. I think about helping her with the bags she is struggling with but I’m not sure what the etiquette is any more. The office is remarkable only for its clutter. There are files of papers everywhere, on the floor, on shelves, on the two desks at either end of the room.

‘Take a seat if you can find an empty one.’

I sit and wait for her to do the same.

‘So that copper, Conway, is it? He’s got a right hard-on for you, hasn’t he? What did you ever do to him?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I get on better with Blake.’

‘Yeah. Anyway, your upcoming interview. They’ve given us a bit more disclosure so this time we might have to actually go full-comment on this one, depending, obviously.’

‘Depending on what?’ I say, puzzled.

‘On what your version is.’

I look at her, waiting to say more but she seems to be doing the same. Finally, she brushes a stray hair over an ear and unsheaths a Bic.

‘Well then?’

‘Well what?’ I say.

‘What’s your version?’

‘My version is that I didn’t do it.’

‘That’s a start,’ she says, looking up. ‘What’s the rest? Why were you in the house? When were you in the house? Are you still going with that whole last-week story or have we reflected a bit since last time?’

I am shocked by how direct she is, but I suppose she has to be. ‘I’m beginning to think it was when they’re saying. Thirty years ago,’ I say.

‘Okay. And are you saying you did see her being killed then?’

‘I think so.’

‘You think?’